When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring at the same old ceiling—the one from my childhood home. The very place where I had lived until my teenage years, before I went abroad.
But wait… wasn't I supposed to be dead?
A cold shiver ran down my spine as confusion settled in. To make sense of what was happening, I quickly sat up, my gaze darting around the room. Everything was exactly as I remembered—every piece of furniture, every little detail. My childhood home.
I felt frozen, my breath caught in my throat. This wasn't possible. Even if I had survived, I should have been in a hospital, not here.
Summoning my strength, I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. My heart pounded as I turned toward the mirror beside me. What I saw made my blood run cold.
Staring back at me was my younger self—the nerdy, awkward version of me from middle school. The same boxy glasses that didn't suit my face. The same look I had when I was in sixth grade.
No. No, no, no! This couldn't be real.
Dread clawed at my chest. I didn't want to be in the past. Anything was better than reliving those years—the years I had barely managed to escape. I screamed inside my head, wishing this was some kind of cruel nightmare.
A familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"You're already awake?" My father's voice was light, slightly hoarse. "I was just coming to wake you up."
I turned sharply, my breath hitching. There he stood—my father, just as I remembered him. Seeing him after so many years sent a sharp pang through my chest.
Swallowing hard, I forced a reply. "Yeah, I just woke up." My voice felt strange, smaller than I remembered.
Then I saw my mother. My brother. Their faces, frozen in time, exactly as they had been all those years ago. It was too much. I needed to be alone.
Without another word, I rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. My reflection still stared back, the proof that this wasn't some dream. I had traveled back in time.
But why?
Then, like a whisper in my mind, an answer formed—I had been sent here to save Rachel.
But why this year? Why now? In sixth grade, Rachel and I weren't even close. We barely spoke. If I remembered correctly, we wouldn't even become friends until the next year. The timing didn't make sense.
Frustration swirled inside me. If I was going to be stuck here, I wasn't going to live as my old self. I would change. The first thing to go? These awful box-shaped glasses—I would get round ones that actually suited my face.
But there was more to figure out. Maybe Rachel had encountered Raven's enemy before—long before I had ever realized. And if that was the case, I needed to find Raven.
But how?
I was still just a kid in my parents' eyes. They wouldn't let me go anywhere, and I would have to get used to my father's rules all over again.
I gritted my teeth. That was the part I hated most. I didn't want to be stuck in this life again.
But whether I wanted it or not, I was here. And somehow, I had to find out why.
I managed to come out from the bathroom and saw my parents eating breakfast along with my brother. I just went there and nervously sat there. And as usual, my father said, "Late again. Do you even know what the word 'punctual' means? Can't you move any faster? Or is dragging your feet the only pace you know?"
I felt the familiar wave of annoyance surge through me. After college, those years without his nagging and constant criticism felt like breathing after being underwater for too long. I got used to my independent life—my space, my rules. Now, being back here, under their roof, under their control… it felt suffocating.
Since I was a kid, I dreamed of living alone. People always told me it would be lonely, but when I finally did it, I wasn't. I was happy. There was a quiet, profound joy in being on my own. No one barking orders, no one pushing me to do what I didn't want to. Now I had to live those days all over again.
But to make things right… to save Rachel… I had no choice.
Then, just as I slipped into thought, my father's voice snapped again like a whip. "What are you doing, just sitting there? Won't you eat? Or do you need someone to spoon-feed you like a child? Honestly, it's no wonder you're so thin. You can't even take care of yourself."
To someone else, those words might sound like parental concern. But not to me. It didn't feel like care—it felt like control. Like I had to eat until he said I'd had enough. I couldn't say no. I never could. They said it was to make me healthier. And sure, eventually I did become healthier.
But their force-feeding didn't help. It only made me feel sick.
Now, back in their house, under their grip… I felt powerless again. Again, I started to eat quickly, shoving food into my mouth just to get it over with.
As I did, my mother said, "She's just like your mother."
She meant my grandma.
Even though I loved my mother dearly, sometimes her words felt like tiny needles—annoying, unnecessary. My grandma, due to her age, was slow with everything—eating, moving, talking. Maybe it seemed funny to them, just a casual comment. But hearing it over and over every single day used to drive me mad. And now, even after all these years, hearing it again felt just as irritating. Like a mockery wrapped in a joke.
My father chimed in, "My mother wasn't this slow before. It's her age. Now she's just slow and lazy."
Lazy. As if aging was a personal flaw.
I kept eating, each bite more forced than the last. My jaw tense, my mind louder than ever.
I wanted to get up. Walk away.
I wanted to do whatever I wanted.
But I couldn't.
And I hated every second of it.
In my head, I kept thinking: Why now? Why this year? Why not a little later—when I was in college, when I could actually handle this better? Why did time bring me back here, now, of all moments?
Then my mother added, "What will she even do in the future?"
That line hit hard.
Another casual cut masked as curiosity.
I didn't respond. Just kept chewing, eyes fixed on the plate.
But in my mind, I spoke to her clearly:
I'll do better than anyone, mother. Don't worry.
I already know everything. The things that will happen. The things you'll all do. And the things I'll achieve.
I quickly finished eating and got up from the dining table.
Right now, life just felt like a burden sitting heavy on my shoulders.
Today was a holiday, but tomorrow… I had to go back to school.
And I'd get to see Rachel.
If I became friends with her now—this early—maybe fate would change. Back then, at this point in time, I hadn't even met her yet. We weren't friends. Not really. But if I took the step now, things could be different. I wouldn't do that to her again—the awful thing I did before.
Looking back, I had betrayed her in more ways than one.
And still… she stayed.
She chose to stay.
But this time, I wouldn't let that happen.
I can fix it.
I can be the friend she deserved from the start. Her best friend. Flawless. Loyal. Real.
I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the bed, glancing around.
It looked so… different.
The old furniture. The colors. The layout. So many things I had thrown away, replaced.
And yet, here they were again.
Everything was different.
And so was I.
That meant I had to change too.
I couldn't go on being the same nerdy Oakley I used to be.
First things first—I needed to start with the small things. I'd nag my mom to change these glasses that never fit my face properly. Get a haircut. Start looking after myself.
If I was going to rewrite everything—starting with Rachel—then I needed to become the version of me that could.
Suddenly, I heard my father's voice calling out to me, and like a reflex, irritation coursed through my body. I walked over to him, knowing exactly what was coming — another lecture about how terrible I was at talking to people.
If it were the old me, I would've snapped back without a second thought. I would've argued, said something sarcastic, and in return, taken the slap that always followed. But I wasn't that version of myself anymore. Now, I was more like a 34-year-old trapped in a 12-year-old's body. It made me want to laugh — in that bitter, ironic way.
He went on, scolding me for being impolite and mannerless. But it wasn't like I was rude to everyone. I had even won an award at work — "Best Employee," praised for my kindness and professionalism. Still, there was no point explaining. Not to someone like him.
So I just nodded and let him talk.
That, I realized, was maturity — knowing when to speak and when silence is the louder answer. Arguing with someone who'll never understand, someone who believes disagreeing with elders is the height of disrespect… it's pointless.
After the brief scolding, I walked back to my room, picked up my old tablet — the one I hadn't touched in ages. Since I was a teen now, I couldn't even use my phone anymore. But holding the tablet made me feel oddly… happy.
It wouldn't last long, I knew. Soon, he'd throw it — smash it on the floor like he always did when anger got the better of him. But for now, it was intact, and the nostalgia of holding it made my chest tighten with something close to joy.
Then an idea hit me.
I should text her.
Or maybe not just her — the whole friend group. What if we could be together again? Laugh, talk like we used to?
But almost as quickly, I hesitated. It would be too messy. People weren't mature enough. We'd just end up hurting each other again. Every step I took now had the power to shape my future. I had to be careful.
Still, I picked up my tab and started searching. That's when I remembered — she always used fake accounts. A pang of hopelessness settled in.
But then, out of nowhere, Reese's profile appeared on the screen.
And I thought, Why not start with her?
In the past, I always chased the popular ones. I was a dumb, attention-seeking mess. That wasn't me anymore.
So I took a breath… and hit send friend request.
---